In Vino Veritas or Two Birds Walk Into A Bar
by miragedelgado
Summary: Hank Hall came back from the dead a changed man. Zinda Blake gets that.


**Title:** In Vino Veritas or Two Birds Walk Into A Bar...  
><strong>Author:<strong> mirage_delgado.  
><strong>Fandom:<strong> DC Universe.  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Hank Hall, Zinda Blake and Dawn Granger.  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 3,949, roughly.  
><strong>Rating:<strong> PG-13, for language.  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> DC Comics owns all. (And Superboy, too. Who knew?)  
><strong>Summary:<strong> Hank Hall came back from the dead a changed man. Zinda Blake gets that.  
><strong>Author's Notes:<strong> 1) Fits continuity-wise sometime in-between _BIRDS OF PREY #10_ (current series) and before the end of _BRIGHTEST DAY._ 2) Written in the early morning hours and posted with minimal editing, after an extended period of sleep deprivation. That should explain it all. But if it doesn't, do keep in mind that is a fic about two drunks in a bar. Any real or perceived lack of coherence in plot, cohesion in story logic or continuity of dialogue fits perfectly. After all, when was the last time you saw a coherent drunk? ;-)

"Hey barkeep, I'd like to buy a drink in honor of my dead teammate!" Zinda Blake's voice echoed across the room as she bellied up to the bar, taking the seat right next to Hank Hall. Muttering a curse under his breath, Hank turned away from 'Lady Blackhawk's' grinning gaze but it was too late. The fighter pilot had already acquired her target in her sights.

Hank knew it was going to be one of _those_ nights. One of those nights where he couldn't so much as take a piss without one of his newfound teammates from the "Birds of Prey" (which he had only agreed to join because Dawn Granger -the Dove to his Hawk and his only _real_ teammate, as far as he was concerned- had talked him into it in the first place) keeping him under constant surveillance. And apparently, tonight the part of Hawk's Babysitter was going to be played by a leggy, too-damn-upbeat blonde with a reputation for public displays of excessive drunkenness. He was already sure that it wouldn't be long before she made it onto his growing shit list.

"You lost another war buddy, Zinda?" The bartender asked as he poured a shot and slid it across the counter. "Geez, sorry to hear that. When did he die?"

"Four years ago," she replied while taking a quick sideways glance at Hank.

"Four years...?" The bartender sputtered. "And you are just now...?"

"I've been busy," Zinda shrugged while gulping down her drink.

"Nobody's _that_ busy, Blake!"

"You'd be surprised, Joe. Real surprised. Ain't that right, Hank?"

"Piss off," Hank replied.

Zinda grinned. "See? He agrees with me. Two more, please." The bartender served another round; Zinda slid one in front of Hank. "There ya go, handsome."

Hank spent a long moment staring at the drink like it was hemlock before accepting it. "Thanks. Why are you here?"

"Any excuse for a drink." Again, Zinda downed her drink in one quick shot.

"That's not what I meant." Hank took a long swallow. "I meant where's Dawn? She's the one that's taken to being my shadow."

"I talked Ms. Granger into taking the night off."

"What for?"

"'Cause I wanted some face time with you, alone," she admitted. "Y'know, we're all still trying to dope you out."

Hank shrugged. "What's to figure out? I ain't exactly complicated. What you see..."

"Is what you get? Nah, I don't think so. Hey, Joe," she waved to the bartender, "how 'bout another reload down here?"

"Make that two." Hank finished off his drink. The bartender brought two more shot glasses. Zinda grabbed hers and drank it down, then she grabbed Hank's drink out of his hand, downing it just as fast. "Hey! I was drinking that!"

"You were not," she insisted. "Didn't even have your hand on the glass."

"I didn't get a chance, Goddammit!"

"Crybaby." Once more Zinda motioned to the bartender. "Four more for me and a couple for my buddy here."

Again, Hank watched the bartender bring another round of drinks. Yet again, he watched Zinda put them away in rapid succession. "Geezus, Blake. Maybe you should go easy on the drinks, huh?"

"Ease up?" Zinda snorted. "Oh, that's a good one! That's charming, handsome. Funny as hell, but charming."

"I just don't wanna be the guy that has to explain to Oracle how you got alcohol poisoning, that's all," Hank stated. "It ain't like I give a shit how drunk you get otherwise."

"Whatever you say, rookie. But don't concern your pretty little head about me. I was drinking big, tough, manly amateur drunks like you under the table before your parents were born."

"Amateur...? Is that a challenge?"

Zinda grinned. "Nah. I don't pick fights with children, Hall."

"Okay, smartass. We'll settle this the old Navy way; first one to pass out loses."

"Fine by me, hon. You name the booze and I'll buy the shots."

"That's pretty generous."

"Not really. I figure you for a cheap date."

And with _that_, she had jumped to the top of the shit list. Hank flagged down the bartender. "Bring us a bottle of Hiroshima!"

The bartender went slack-jawed in shock. "A whole bottle? Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"Are you suicidal, man?"

"Just bring me the damn bottle and some glasses!"

"Hiroshima? I never heard'a that one," Zinda admitted.

"Nuke Hiroshima Beer. It's brand new," Hank said. "World's most alcoholic beer. Forty three percent alcohol volume."

"Forty three...?" A gasp of astonishment escaped Zinda's mouth, followed by a canary-eating grin.

"Are you guys _trying_ to kill yourselves?" The bartender alternated glances between Hank and Zinda, with something between deep concern and absolute disgust showing on his pudgy, aged face. "'Cause if you are, I'm calling a cab and sending you both home."

"Ain't no suicide attempt," bellowed Zinda. "It's a matter of fuckin' principle! I ain't gonna let some pissant of a little boy outdrink me!"

"Fuck ya too, blondie..." Hank slurred. It was a struggle just to stay upright on his barstool in a spinning world. "Fuck ya right up the ass..."

"You could if you'd get with the program, handsome," she giggled.

"There's a program, Zinda?" asked the bartender.

"Sure! I get some poor dumb testosterone-filled sap, like my boy Hank here..."

"Hey! I ain't _dumb_, dammit!"

"...drunk enough to roll over and put out without a fuss. Jus' like alla the rest of my dates!"

"I'm shitfaced, Blake, not deaf," Hank announced. "But even so, I still got standards."

"Like what?"

"I make it a point to never shag any chick who can drink me under the table! Ain't no way I'm gonna be in a long-term relationship with anybody like that! And you," Hank pointed towards the bartender, "don't even think of dropping a dime on me! I don't need a cab! I'm good! Absolutely, totally...Dude, I didn't know you had a twin..."

"That's it," the barkeeper sighed, "I'm calling a cab..."

"No!" Zinda leapt up wildly from her stool, nearly faceplanting into the bar, with hands waving in protest. "No-no-no, Joe! We're doin' fine here. We're behavin'. Just have Marcy grill us up a couple a burgers, huh? A little something to chase down our booze with, kinda balance it out..."

"All right," the bartender relented. "But I ain't bringing anymore beer for you guys 'til the food's done!"

"Yeah, yeah...that's fine..." She slipped an arm under Hank's waist, gently pulling him up. "Let's go, handsome."

"Leggo me! I don't feel like dancing!"

"We ain't dancing, Hall. I jus' wanna go over there." She pointed with a shaky hand towards a corner table. "I wanna be closer to the toilet. Just in case."

Hank allowed her to drag him over to the table and unceremoniously plop onto a chair. As unsteady as he felt after an hour's worth of hard drinking, he was amazed that not only could she still stand on her own two feet, but she could still walk a (mostly) straight line while carrying his drunk ass in one arm and the half-drank bottle of booze in the other. This all but ensured her a permanent place at Number One on his all-time shit list. "Y'know something, Blake?"

"What's that, handsome?"

"I'm gonna end up hungover tomorrow, maybe even worshiping the porcelain God later tonight. And I'm fine with that. But you know what's really gonna piss me off? The ineverita... nah, the inertiable... No, that ain't it... What the fuck's that word...?"

"You mean 'inevitable?'"

"Yeah, that! Inevitable! The inevitable lecture from Dawn. And you know what I'm gonna tell her?"

"It's all my fault?"

"Damned straight it is!" Hank roared. "I had my night planned out; Get a drink, hit the streets, find some heads to crack, then maybe get a little bit of tail afterwards..."

"Now we're talking! Sound like my kinda date."

"I'm serious, dammit. You don't have to suffer through a sermon when you get home."

"The big, bad Hawk all worried 'bout being nagged by a dame?" Zinda said in a sing-songsy tone. "Dovey must be quite a gal."

"Me and her ain't like that!"

"Gosh, I wasn't _at all_ insinuating..."

"We aren't!"

"Okay." Hank was grateful for the long minutes (or was it hours? Time flies when you're drunk) of silence that followed. Unfortunately, Zinda had to open her mouth and ruin it. "Slightly random question," she said as she eyed up the booze bottle. "You mind if I finish this off?"

Hank could barely even stand and she still wanted to keep doing shots. There is absolutely no one that could ever remove her from the top of his shit list now. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Don't mind if I do, then." She drank the booze down, finishing with an exaggerated 'ah!' afterwards. "That's the stuff. Wanna split another bottle?"

"Why. Are. You. _Here_?"

"I told ya," she sighed, "we're still trying to figure you out."

"Who's 'we'?"

"Me, the Skipper, all the rest of us Birds. And I think maybe your Dove, too."

"You don't know shit about me or Dawn!"

"I know more than you think, son," she said with a commanding tone, catching Hank's attention. "You're one half of Hawk and Dove, dynamic duo of D.C. Been partners in crimefighting for a long time, linked together by 'magic' or some such, kinda like soldiers in the same unit. But then it looked like Dove got herself killed in action and you was the one to blame, so's you got yourself a nasty case of shellshock, maybe even qualified for a Section Eight. So you did some bad things to other people until it all caught up with you. Got yourself killed 'cause of it. Now you came back from being dead, just like Jesus -though get it straight, fella, there ain't nothing about you that's saintly- and you go and re-enlist, with a pat on the back from the Skipper, though maybe not necessarily a visit with a chaplin. That 'bout sum it up?"

"Been peeking in Oracle's files, huh?"

"I ain't much for computers. But I can read a mission brief." Zinda grinned. "Am I wrong?"

"That's my life in a nutshell. What's your point?"

"I'm just wondering if you're shellshocked or if you simply got your head jammed up your ass."

"Wait a damn second...!"

"I'm serious here," she insisted. "I've seen fellas an' gals suffer from both conditions and often times it ain't easy to tell the difference. Look at yourself! You got yourself a ticket back to the homefront! A second chance at being alive, man! That ain't something most of my buddies ever got. And instead of doing something with it, you're doing more of the same stupid shit that got you killed during wartime."

"Wartime?"

"I'm a little drunk," Zinda admitted.

"I don't care," Hank snarled, "you keep on insulting me to my face and I won't be held responsible for the consequences."

"Big manly man like you gonna slap a wisp of a girl like me in public? Heh."

"Choking ain't hitting."

"I already drank you under the table, son. You really wanna see if you can take me in a brawl?"

The scowl on Zinda's face suggested to Hank that he should shut up and listen. "No, ma'am..."

A smile crossed Zinda's lips. "A little respect. I like that."

"You ain't the only one who's drunk. I'm in no shape to fight, that's all," Hank asserted.

Another long span of silence passed between them, long enough for the burgers to arrive and for the both of them to sober up a very slight amount. In between bites, Hank asked "Oracle really got that much dirt on me?"

"Wouldn't call it 'dirt', necessarily. Your reputation kinda precedes you in our line of work."

"Look, I don't remember much of..." Hank gestured wildly, grasping for the words. "You gotta understand, my mind's like swiss cheese. Big gaps. I remember seeing Dove get shot down by a second-rate Darth Vader rip-off. Next thing I know, I'm surrounded by Dove and the Justice League, alla them screaming that I was dead. Everything in-between is fuzzy. I remember pieces, but it's like...it wasn't me. It wasn't me doing those things, it's like I was watching TV. It didn't feel real to me."

"Kinda makes sense. Heard you were possessed by a sorcerer for a spell or something?"

"Was that a pun?"

"I'm still drunk."

"Whatever. The point is that my old man's a judge and he was always telling Don and me..."

"Who's Don?"

"My brother, but he's still dead and ain't gonna change his mind about it..."

"You talk to ghosts a lot, Hall?"

"I dreamt about him during my hospital stay, but forget alla that," Hank shrugged. "My dad's a judge. He's heard all the excuses from criminals begging for mercy. The old 'I didn't mean to hurt anybody, yer honor, I'm a victim of society' line doesn't cut a lotta ice with my Pop. He was always telling us kids that actions have consequences, regardless of a guy's intentions. I know I've done some horrible shit in my life, some of it even _before_ I died. And the fact that I don't recall any of it doesn't mean I'm not responsible for any of it. I've got things to make up for!"

Zinda stared blankly at Hank for a long moment before a smile cracked her facade, followed by howls of laughter. "What the hell's so funny?" Hank asked.

"You are, jackass!"

"Hey!"

"Nah, really. 'I did horrible shit while brainwashed, so I gotta do more'a the same.' That's your excuse for acting like a dick? What a line of shit! What's your real reason for pushing people away?"

"Who the hell said I'm pushing people away?"

"It's obvious. I've known you a month, tops, and I can see it."

"Fuck this shit!" Hank pushed away from the table. "I'm not gonna sit here and be insulted."

"Where d'ya think you're going?"

"I'm too drunk to beat your ass, but I can still call a cab home."

Zinda rose from her chair and stepped in front of Hank, fists clenched. "Don't you dare leave! I ain't finished heckling you yet!"

"Fuck you! I'm gone!"

"Sit your ass back down, son. Sit it back in that chair or I'll break it over your Goddamn skull. Choose."

"Move, bitch!" Hank shoved Zinda out of his way, rougher than intended. She stumbled backwards and fell into a nearby table; drinks spilled, bottles shattered and the few drunks remaining in the bar scattered like rats on a sinking ship. He had almost reached the exit when he felt a tug of his shoulder spin him around face-to-face with Zinda, followed by a punch to his face and the sensation of gravity pulling him towards the floor.

"You don't like having your buttons pushed." Zinda observed.

"Ya think?" Hank re-adjusted the ice pack as he glanced around the now nearly empty bar. Joe the bartender stared daggers at them both as they nursed their sodas. "You throw a mean right hook, Blake."

"Thanks, handsome. How's the eye?"

"Black."

"Sorry 'bout that." Zinda sounded contrite. "I was swinging for your jaw, but that 'Hiroshima' moonshine has kinda impaired my aim."

"Any particular reason you flattened me, outside of general disrespect?"

"Had to get your attention before you were ready to listen."

"Oh, it's _got._ I just don't get what the hell you're saying. You can't sit there and tell me what my life is like. Not like you've lived it..."

"That's true," Zinda calmly stated. "But y'know, I figure coming back from the dead must be a helluva lot like falling sixty-plus years through a time warp."

"You mean that's true? You really are one of the WW II Blackhawks?"

"On a stack of Bibles, I swear. Last living original member."

"Huh. I thought you were just an ex-merc trading off the rep," Hank admitted. "Well, you look damn good for someone in her nineties. Dating must be a real bitch, though."

"Just try gettin' the senior citizens discount at a restaurant," Zinda cracked in-between sips of Soder Cola. "Anyways, I figure resurrection must be a lot like a one-way trip thru time. Everything's gone and changed; the whole damn world fulla newfangled ideas, newfangled words and newfangled technology, alla this foreign stuff floating around, none of it making a damn bit of sense. Now you wasn't gone as long as me, so that probably ain't much of an issue for you." Hank thought about correcting her, but kept silent. "And of course everybody you ever knew is, in one fashion or the other, dead and gone. Those that didn't actually buy the farm somewhere during the interim, well, they ain't the people you remember. They all grew up and got married and then just plain got _old_ while you was away. They moved on while you got left behind. You just can't relate to them anymore and vice versa. So there you are, stuck between deciding if you want to find a place in this new world you're trapped in or if you should just put a slug 'tween the eyes."

"Um...We're still talking about me, right?"

"Don't change the subject."

"I'm not suicidal."

"That's good to know."

"I'm _not_," Hank sighed. "I dunno... Maybe it's a side effect of being dead, but I feel numb all the time, like I'm..."

"Going through the motions?"

"Yeah, exactly! The only time I feel close to normal is when I'm Hawk. And then I'm doing stupid shit like falling out of exploding helicopters and getting shot by ninjas..."

"As I recall, it was more like impaled."

"Six of one, etcetera. It's just...I don't want to die again, Blake. I really don't, but I don't feel like living either."

"You wanna hear something?" Zinda looked Hank dead in the eye. "You got Oracle's respect. She's seen something in you the rest of us didn't. That's good enough for me. You also got her concern. She's afraid you're on a path the rest of us Birds have been down before, and it ain't a journey anybody should take by themselves. If you got her concern, then you got ours, too."

"And that's the reason you've been busting my ass all night? You're trying to help me?"

"That, and I'd be a piss poor Blackhawk if'n I didn't at least try to help a fellow 'hawk work out his issues over a couple pints and some shit talking." Zinda gulped down the last of her soda. "But honestly, I was just hoping I could get you so pissed that I could talk my way into your pants."

"Heh. I don't think Oracle's big on fraternization between teammates."

"The skipper?" Zinda grinned. "She said that if I bang a co-worker and don't enjoy it, I can put it down on my timesheet."

Hank threw his head back and laughed. As his laughter echoed throughout the bar, he realized that it was the first time he had laughed since...God, he couldn't remember! Somewhere in back of his mind, he crossed the name 'Lady Blackhawk' off the top of his shit list.

After the laughter stopped and the bar was again silent, Zinda quietly said "I think you should talk to your girl, Hank. Set her mind at ease."

"Dawn's not 'my girl,' Blake."

Zinda smiled slyly. "Not yet."

"You sure you don't want me to call you a cab?" The bartender yelled out after Hank and Zinda as they stumbled out of the bar.

Zinda waved him off. "Nah, Joe! We'll be fine. Got a friend coming to pick us up."

"We do?" Hank asked.

"Yup. Any second now..."

Half a minute later, a black sedan pulled up and parked beside them. The platinum blonde driver behind the wheel was also a familiar sight to Hank. "What's Dawn doin' here?"

"I texted her," Zinda responded, "soon as I found you at the bar. Told her to pick us up after last call."

"You said she had the night off!"

"So I lied," she shrugged.

"She's gonna chew my ass out 'cause of you! That ain't right!"

"Man up already, you fucking sissy."

Dawn Granger got out of the car and took mental note of Hank's black eye, Zinda's tipsiness and the stench of alcohol on them both. She stared at them, judging, with a look in her eyes somewhere between pity and contempt. "Zinda, your text said you were 'keeping him out of trouble,'" Dawn complained. "What did you do to him?"

"I just softened him up a little for you, Dawn. Whipped him into shape so as you can talk to him now."

"You call this in shape? You punched him in the face!"

"I look worse than I feel," volunteered Hank.

"Both of you get in the damn car," ordered Dawn. "The back seat!"

"You had Oracle send the whole team out to find me?" was the first thing Hank had said on the return trip to Kord Tower.

Dawn nodded, focused on the road. "I was worried you might do something especially stupid tonight."

"Going out on a Saturday night is stupid?"

"Well, considering the date and the way you've been acting lately..."

"I know. Dawn, I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"Everything."

Dawn smiled warmly. "You never have to apologize to me, Hank."

"I want to, anyway."

"D'aw, that's cute..." interrupted Zinda, her head resting her head on Hank's shoulder, eyes closed.

"Piss," he cursed. "I thought you were out cold."

"Bullshit. Jus' resting my eyes..."

"Before you black out, let me ask you something."

"Shoot."

"Said you had a war buddy who died four years ago?" Zinda grunted. "They tell me I died four years ago, too. On this very date. Don't remember it, though."

"Is that a bad thing?" Zinda asked.

"Dunno yet." Hank hesitated. "Did it take you a long time to adjust after falling through time?"

"Still am adjusting, handsome."

"Does it ever get any easier?"

"Nope. Now shut up and let me pass out." She did, and over the sound of Dawn's laughter, Hank mentally revised his shit list, crossing names off one at a time before deciding to just tear the damn thing up.


End file.
